


Overheated

by battle_cat



Series: Together [50]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wasteland coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: What are a couple of road warriors to do while waiting for an engine to cool?





	Overheated

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [YoukaiYume's smutty art](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/177203091888/hello-tumblr-long-time-no-smut-more).
> 
> The attack mentioned is the one in [Red, Purple, White](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478653).

They’ve gotten the repaired engine of the fire-damaged rig to start reliably enough times in the garage that it’s time for a test drive.

“I’ll do it,” Toast says. She’s been grim and withdrawn since the attack, silently removing herself from any conversation in which her crew starts repeating their newest war story to anyone who will listen.

“No.” Max is pretty sure Furiosa’s refusal has more to do with her own twitchy mood than anything Toast has done, but Toast still looks hurt.

“Next run,” Furiosa promises. “Let us give it a go first.”

The enormous lift lowers just the cab of the rig down onto the sand; the tanker too precious to risk damaging if the engine isn’t reliable after all. Furiosa is in the driver’s seat, Max beside her with the SKS in easy reach on the dash.

She’s tight-lipped and tense as she eases the engine through a series of gear changes on the flat plains below the Citadel. They’re in well-defended Citadel territory—between the border scouts and the tower snipers they’re about as safe as anyone can be in the Wasteland—but he can still feel the hard edge of her anxiety as she downshifts to guide them through a patch of soft sand.

The engine is performing well so far, and when they reach a stretch of hard-packed sand she throws caution to the wind and fangs it. The engine roars and he can’t help noticing a tiny smile creep onto her face, a fraction of the tension easing from her shoulders. The smile becomes an outright grin as she leans on the accelerator and the engine responds, barreling toward the redline.

She doesn’t drive as much these days. The Vuvalini have a philosophy that everyone should know how to do as many tasks as they are able to, so that the loss of any one member’s skills or knowledge doesn’t cripple the tribe. Ace had been promoted to Imperator nearly as soon as Furiosa could sit up in bed long enough to say the words, and Toast had begun training shortly thereafter.

(She had wanted to do away with titles and ranks entirely, Max had learned after enough times coming back, but there is only so quickly a lifetime of poison can be drawn out of a body.)

When he’s at the Citadel, she is usually busy with responsibilities much bigger than driving a War Rig on a simple supply run. He thinks she misses it sometimes.

With a distressed whine and a cough of steam, the engine overheats.

“Fuck,” she hisses, laying off the gas and easing them to a rolling stop next to a low dune.

“Not bad, for a first run,” he says, which is true, but she still growls in frustration.

After they pry off the engine plates and determine that nothing is seriously wrong, there is nothing to do but wait.

In the enforced stillness she is back to crackling with tension again. Even with no glass in the side windows, the air in the cab is stifling. The dune gives them some cover to their backs, and the Citadel scouts _should_ be doing their jobs, but it’s not quite enough for her to relax from the lingering strain and the speed-fueled burst of adrenaline.

She taps her foot, tries and fails to roll the tension out of her neck, checks the sidearm she already knows is loaded, and shoots him four or five annoyed glances for doing absolutely nothing before she snaps: “Get in the back, Fool.”

He’s barely clambered into the back seat when she’s on top of him and well…he’s not going to argue with this way of passing the time.

She climbs into his lap, suddenly pressed against him sweaty and insistent. Her kisses are more like biting, her flesh fingers gripping his hair hard enough to hurt, and fuck, it is dizzyingly, overwhelmingly hot. There is something desperate about it that the non-lizard part of his brain might find vaguely disturbing if she hadn’t just swamped his capacity for complex thought. But his hands are already moving, pinching her nipples through her shirt, and then doing it again, harder, when she moans encouragingly; cupping her ass and following the flex of her muscles as she rocks against him.

If this is what she needs to burn off this flare of energy, he is so, so willing to be swept along.

Minutes get lost in frantic heat, rough breathing as she sucks bruises into his neck, the endless grind of her hips where he’s getting distractingly hard, and then she’s sliding off him to unbuckle her pants.

“Should maybe…keep watch…” he mutters in a split second of lucidity as he fumbles with his own leathers. Without saying a word she leans forward, grabs the SKS from the dash and props it in arm’s reach against a front seat.

“You look left. I’ll look right.” She divests herself of her remaining boot and climbs back into his lap, bare from the waist down and facing away from him this time. She wastes no time, reaching behind herself to guide his cock inside her. She is wet but tighter than usual, the position a bit awkward, but he nearly goddamn loses it when she braces herself on the back of the driver’s seat and envelopes him in one long, slow slide. She is still for a moment, breathing hard, but if it’s too much, too fast she is sure as hell not in a mood to admit it. When she rolls her hips experimentally they both make obscene noises.

He can’t remember what the hell direction he was supposed to be looking in but the only thing he’s scouting is the sweat dripping down her lower back.

She starts moving, a devastating grind, her weight heavy enough on top of him that he can’t move his hips more than a twitch, but every time he does that it gets a ragged noise out of her. She is mostly trying to be quiet, her back arched and her moans held between clenched teeth, but increasingly failing as her movements speed up. When he reaches around to play with her clit she gives up entirely, a raw wail shaking out of her as she shudders around him and comes. He can’t last much longer after that, spilling into her while she’s still twitching with aftershocks.

Her weight sags back against him. They’re both gasping, plastered with sweat, a mess of slick and come between them. He’s just starting to remember what his limbs feel like when Furiosa suddenly stiffens and sits bolt upright.

Before he can process what’s happening she has the SKS up against her shoulder, taut and still as a predator on top of him and aiming at something out the driver’s side window.

There’s a long moment of silence in which he doesn’t dare breathe. Then she lowers the rifle. In the distance he catches a flicker of sunlight off chrome.

“One of ours,” she says, her shoulders relaxing again.

She eases carefully off him. She’s not really meeting his gaze but she seems more relaxed as she cleans herself up with a rag from one of her belt pouches and wriggles back into her pants.

The engine turns over on the first try. They drive back to the Citadel at what, for Furiosa, is a shockingly sedate pace.

He doesn’t realize quite how sweaty and disheveled he is until he sees Toast’s face when they return. She doesn’t say anything beyond a few questions about the engine’s performance, but as she turns to peer under the rig’s hood, for the first time in days, he sees her smile.


End file.
